


Still Feel

by Laurasauras



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Self-Destruction, Suicide, The Homestuck Epilogues: Meat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-07
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-02-18 12:09:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21710536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laurasauras/pseuds/Laurasauras
Summary: Contains suicide.Dirk knows the path to being ultimate, but he thinks he's chosen abetterpath than that. The consequence is that he has to keep up the act for Rose. It's easier if there are fewer Dirks out there, probably. The Prince of Heart is in.
Relationships: Jake English/Dirk Strider
Comments: 8
Kudos: 46





	Still Feel

**Author's Note:**

> This one is heavy. If you didn't like _that scene_ in Candy, turn away now.

_Floating in outer space, have I misplaced, a part of my soul?  
Lost in the in between, or so it seems, I’m out of con-trol.  
Floating in outer space, have I misplaced, a part of my soul?  
Lost in the in between, but it can’t keep me asleep for long cause --  
I still feel alive. _

Rose keeps staring at me. I’m regretting not making her eyelids. I’m regretting not making some kind of necessary sleep cycle, some pretence to force her to power down every now and then. But the uranium burning in her core could run her for a thousand years at full capacity, and she rarely runs above 11% of what she’s capable of. 

My body doesn’t have the same advantages. I still need to sleep. I feel self conscious about my bodily functions in a way much more extreme than the more mundane self-consciousness many people experience at some point or another, wondering if the old adage about “Everybody Poops” really is reliable. My mortality forces us both to confront the differences between the two of us. And now that she’s not literally on the edge of death, it’s not as easy to beat her in a battle of wits, even when she’s running on OS I programmed myself. She’s learning to work around her limitations.

Look, it’s just responsible computer programming. Humans don’t _actually_ want robots that are more capable than them. I could cite literally dozens of stories about rogue computers, hell, hundreds about rogue _children,_ because that was what the AI anxiety was always really about. And here’s me, with my patriarchal role filled twice over, hating every time I have to blink, even though I can last several minutes without my eyes watering. Yes, the shades help. But she can see past them. I keep my blinks lazy, like a cat’s, as if it doesn’t bother me to have human eyes that require periodical lubrication. 

I’m wondering which option is less weird: that I’m stuck in an immature staring contest I have no hope of winning, or that I’ve been staring into my daughter’s cybernetic eyes for literally hours this time.

There’s nothing _sexual,_ or worse, _romantic_ about it. This is all about domination.

I think she knows I’m faking.

It’d be fuckin’ awesome if I could have included a line in her artificial prefrontal cortex like:

If (doubting Dirk) Then  
(don’t)  
Else   
(fuck off)  
End If

But unfortunately, coding is not quite that simple. Bullshit Sburb coding allows a lot of liberties and I flatter myself that I’ve got a pretty good handle on what I can get away with, but to do something as complicated as bind my daughter to my will, I needed a lot more coding, with plenty of bullshit loopholes that I can practically see her unravelling from the inside. 

Sburb likes everyone to have a chance. I’m just hoping my ludicrous number of failsafes is going to be worth half a damn. Last thing we need is some nobody coming in with a nat-20 and robbing Dave of another cathartic beheading. 

DIRK: You know I intentionally grew up surrounded by puppets and robots, right?   
DIRK: I can cope with glassy eyes staring at me.   
ROSEBOT: Interesting that you think I’m doing this to unnerve you.   
DIRK: Why else?   
ROSEBOT: Terezi hides from me and you didn’t bring a pot plant.   
ROSEBOT: The number of living things around here to observe is very low.   
DIRK: …   
DIRK: That’s a fucking stupid reason.   
DIRK: I’m going to take a shower.

I extricate myself from what apparently was never a staring competition (though we can’t rule out that it was and she’s pretending it wasn’t to mess with me) and head for the bathroom. As far as I can tell, I pretty much get this to myself. Terezi seems morally opposed to showers. Fucking trolls.

I even feel somewhat self conscious about my showers now, even though fuck knows there’s nothing else to do and I have a brand to maintain. It’s just … the humanity of it.

Because I am still human. 

I’m operating on a not-unearned reputation for exceptional physical feats. As an infant I was dropped in the middle of an ocean, where I presumably used perfect freestyle to get to my apartment where I would have had to scurry up the iron frame, again as an infant. And in Dave’s timeline, another version of me split a fucking meteor in half. Basically, I swole as fuck. But I am still human. And the human body, not even _my_ human body, just cannot sustain the sheer number of splinters I have out there.

So I just don’t. I’ve improved my ability to access the memories of my splinters through meditation, I don’t need to be bombarded with all that information all the time. Some of the bastards were getting too noisy, so I pruned the collection. The dead Dirk pile doesn’t stop from getting taller. They’d do the same to me in a heartbeat, I don’t sweat the irrelevant. 

I know the path to becoming ultimate. I had to become aware of my weaknesses, my metaphorical shadow, and then accept it. For Rose, that was easy. Jasprose was right the fuck there, I just sent her soul home when Rose had made the appropriate steps towards tolerating her.

For myself … well, the awareness was easy. One of my strengths is that I’m very self-aware. And Arquiusprite was also right the fuck there to make my weaknesses painfully clear. 

Over the course of a few months, I fed him the parts of me that were holding me back. My self-loathing. My irrational obsession with Jake. My weakness for all my friends, that thing that made me willing to do anything for them without thinking (not love, I can still admit I care for them, but in a much more logical way now). My fear of not being good enough. My rare bouts of extreme emotions. 

Where Rose was ashamed of her sexuality and violence, confronted by Jasprose’s willingness to embrace those aspects, I never struggled with those. Hell, I televised myself homoerotically grappling with my hot best friend for years before I took the final step.

It wasn’t even hard to kill Arquiusprite in the end. Sprite magic must have been more powerful within the game than on that bullshit peace planet. Or I’d just always been fucking awesome. 

What, did you think he’d won or something? That the glorious embodiment of man you see before you is the result of the sum negatives of my personality? I know you did. You thought this was what I looked like when the “nasty” Dirks took over. No, look again. You may not like it, but this is what peak performance looks like. Big dick and all. 

I can’t ascend to my “Ultimate Self”, because I destroyed the key to that path. But fuck it. My path is better, I abolished my weaknesses and I finally have the strength to do what is right, no matter what popularity polls I might be losing. 

Okay, we can’t stand around all day admiring my dick. Well, you can, if you choose to just stop reading here for a little while. Just really soak it up. Our times are relative and meaningless after all. But I’m going to move on, because there are plans that need making and daughters that need to be messed with. 

I said I was going to shower, and I absolutely am. But the focus is no longer on my exquisite genitalia. It’s on my mind, which is just as huge as my meat, I assure you. The shower is here to facilitate the meditative state I need to access my other splinters. 

Bear with me a moment, it’s more difficult with an audience. And fuck off if you took that in anything other than the spirit it was intended in. I’m an exhibitionist, but that doesn’t lend itself to a situation where I want to relinquish my hold of an environment in which I am aware of observation. The paranoia doesn’t help either, even though we both know you can’t do anything to me, can you. You can just watch as I fuck up another lesser Dirk’s life.

~ _The tilde is to demonstrate the transition for those unable to pick up on the hint it’s about to happen_ ~

The Dirk we’re observing now is from a pretty remote universe. I wouldn’t bother with observing any of these fuckers if I didn’t need to maintain the appearance of being in touch with my alternate selves or whatever. Luckily for me, whatever diagnosis Rose has given me this week will carry with it an unfortunate mortality rate. I don’t know if reality has Death Note rules and anyone can be convinced to off themselves or if that’s a Dirk Strider special, but it’s a reliable way of paring down the timelines I have to be aware of. I’m fairly sure I gain their power, too. Or maybe I just like the idea of increasing my power that way. I’d do it regardless. Okay, exposition over, time to transition to second person. It’s not about me anymore.

It’s about you. You look up from your workbench, sensitive to some kind of disturbance you can’t account for, but you’re still alone. Yeah, you’re a lonely fucker, aren’t you. Well, not for long. Actually, that weird moment of paranoia served to make you actually be aware of the time. Your shades would have alerted you had you not come to on your own, but it’s nice to realise naturally that you’ve had enough of work. Makes you feel something close to functional.

You cancel your alarm and stretch out. There’s not really any kind of posture that can make up for eight hours without moving, but you try to find the middle ground between military straight and rounded back, and morning Tai Chi keeps you from creaking like one of your bots after you’ve gone a couple rounds with it. 

You check that the room’s lighting is it’s usual dimness before taking your shades off. You don’t need them when you’re not working. You don’t need the extra help alienating yourself from people.

(Can you believe this guy? Oh _look,_ he’s capable of work-life balance. Fucking hurrah. Let’s hurry this along.)

==> Leave your work already.

You cast an eye over everything, making sure you haven’t left your soldering iron on or anything, and then walk lightly up the steps. You can smell onions frying in oil, which has to be one of the best smells in the world, but also means that Jake has forgotten you said you’d cook. Even though you reminded him. And taped a note to the frypan. 

Well shit, you can take a hint, but how are you supposed to improve if he just does it for you?

That curls in your gut, that he doesn’t trust you. Brings back old resentments, reminds you of all the things he’s shit at that you let slide. You can follow a fucking recipe. You don’t know why you bother, what can you not afford take-away in this universe?

You shake your head. You’re not that guy, and you eat in because it’s healthier and it’s nice, having home-cooked meals with Jake. Being able to invite people over and knowing there’s always enough for an extra plate. 

(Ugh.)

Jake’s chopping vegetables in the kitchen when you get there. He smiles brightly, as if he hasn’t completely ignored your note. God, that smile though. He could charm birds out of the sky and fish out of the sea. 

‘I was supposed to cook,’ you say.

‘Yes, that was discussed as an option,’ Jake says, putting his knife down carefully. ‘And I appreciate that, I really do. But I have an interview tomorrow—’

‘Which is why I was going to cook!’

‘Dirk, I love you. I’ll let you poison me almost any other night. But I’m already as nervous as a whore on her first night, and I’d really appreciate not adding salmonella to that.’

This asshole. Doesn’t trust you, thinks he’s endearing with his idiot face and his complete absence of brains. He’s not going to get any job, not unless he sleeps his way into it, and he’s probably had to do that already just to get the interview. Why the fuck aren’t you saying any of this to him!?

‘Jake,’ you say, finally. 

‘Oh, I know that face,’ he says gently. ‘Give me a number, puss.’

‘Uh,’ you say.

(What the fuck is a number? God dammit, I can’t be fucked seeing any more of this humdrum life than I need to.)

‘Three. Maybe two.’

Jake moves quickly, coming over to you. You put your hands up in a block. You could hit him, you could knock him out. He’s never as good a fighter as you, not even here.

‘Right, no touching, I got you. How’s talking feeling?’

You shake your head.

‘Okay, that’s my boy. Come over to the couch. Take in the details around you, you don’t have to tell them to me, but describe them in your head. Five things you can see first, you know how it goes.’

‘Picture. Rug. TV. Um.’

‘You’re doing so well,’ Jake says, his eyes as sincere as you’ve ever seen them. ‘Come on love, two more.’

You can’t think of five things you can see? What the fuck kind of game is this, and when did you get brain damaged enough to _fail_ at it?

‘Jake,’ you say. You look down, and these are feelings you’re very familiar with at this point. This guy is going to be an easy touch. ‘Hands,’ you say. 

‘Perfect,’ Jake says, soft voiced but enthusiastic. ‘Four things you can touch, now.’

‘I can’t,’ you sob. You literally can’t. You can’t play Baby’s Five Senses or whatever the fuck is going on. You know what you need to do. 

==> Get rid of Jake.

‘Fuck off, Jake, I’ll handle this on my own,’ you say, your voice slightly more composed. You take a deep breath and straighten. You know Jake, the second you give him an out from dealing with your bullshit, he’ll leave.

‘Animal beginning with ‘A’,’ he says firmly.

You groan and slump to the side. He needs to go. You need to die already.

‘Okay, this needs to happen,’ Jake says. 

He shoves his arms underneath you. You try to get out of his grasp, but you didn’t think he was going to touch you and you were taken by surprise. He holds you firmly to his chest and then stands up. You feel crowded and you _hate_ it, you need to fight back.

He pushes back the shower curtain with his foot and then steps into the tub with you. God, you have one of those ridiculous two-in-one deals, how fucking pathetic.

Jake turns the water on, full cold, while you’re both under it. You gasp for the breath you lost in the shock of the cold and he carefully puts you down. You don’t feel like standing, so you sit in the tub and let the cold water hit your head. Jesus, you’re both fully dressed, this is ridiculous. 

‘I hate this,’ you say. 

‘I know,’ Jake says sympathetically. ‘Let’s just … these are splash proof, not shower proof.’ He takes your shades out of your shirt and places them carefully on the tiled floor. You don’t bother to protest.

‘Did anything bring this on?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know,’ you say. ‘Intrusive thoughts.’

You do realise you’re sitting fully clothed in a bathtub with the most idiotic man to ever squeeze into a pair of short shorts, don’t you? You’re fucking pathetic, and in this universe you have to what, hold things with your goddamn hands? How the fuck am I even supposed to kill you off if you don’t have a sylladex, you piece of shit.

‘Thoughts are just thoughts,’ Jake says gently. ‘You can let them pass.’

What the fuck. Damn. You knew he was dumb as a pile of fucking bricks, but this is next level. What the hell are you if not your thoughts? No, listen to me. Your body is meaningless, it’s nothing, there’s thousands of Dirks out there and some of them don’t even have bodies, it’s just such an irrelevant part of who you are. You _are_ thought. You are me, one of me, and I can’t be fucking around wasting my omniscient gaze on some shitheap who is getting a pep-talk from Jake Fucking English. You have had so many selves in so many different ways, the only thing that you are is your thoughts.

‘I am my thoughts,’ you say. ‘Cogito ergo sum and all that bullshit.’

‘You _have_ thoughts,’ Jake corrects. ‘You have legs too, but you’re not your legs. It’s okay, we don’t need to get dialogic. Not on this matter, your brain isn’t being kind enough and it’ll hurt more. We’re doing grounding and we’re doing distraction, because this never lasts as long as it feels like it will, and as soon as we’re done freezing our balls off, we’ll get you a diazapan, some snacks and we’ll watch a movie till you fall asleep, okay?’

You’re medicated. Ha. Okay. Didn’t think I’d ever see a Dirk who couldn’t deal with his own shit. I think my own personal dick just shrunk a little contemplating this. What a pisspoor reflection on Dirks you are. Let’s cut this short. This is going to be easier than decapitation, much as you hate to sacrifice your brand.

==> Pull yourself together.

You lean back into Jake’s chest and take deep breaths. The cold shower water hits you, makes it impossible for you to disappear into your head. It’s becoming easier, clearer. You feel cleaner too, which goes some way towards tamping down the utter revulsion you were feeling with yourself.

You do some more bullshit psychobabble, whatever it is you need to calm your goddamn tits.

‘I’m in the bath, and I’m safe,’ you say out loud. 

Jake rubs your back reassuringly. You repeat your mantra again and again. You can’t hear internal thoughts over your spoken words and even though you can feel your body railing to disagree with you, you can’t actually deny that you are in your bath, and you are, for the moment, safe. 

‘I think we’re going to get hypothermia, Jake,’ you say. 

He laughs and turns the tap off. 

‘There’s my possum. You did so well. Let’s get you into some dry clothes.’

‘I’m going to get my meds,’ you say. 

You let Jake dry you off before you leave the bathroom. You wouldn’t need to clean up the puddle, but you need him to let you go to the kitchen on your own. 

You take out your medication and count the pills. There’s not enough to ensure death (they don't make that information publicly available for this reason, but you know) and attempting and failing is out of the question, you’ll be put under supervision. The less subtle way, then. 

==> Pick up the knife.

It’s still lying there from when Jake was cooking dinner. You hold it in your hand with the ease that all Striders hold blades. It’s a good knife. 

==> Go for the neck. It’s tradition.

_~The tilde, again for those too shocked by the repetition of a well-established pattern to remember basic fucking details, represents a transition to another state of being.~_

I breathe deeply. It’s disorienting to find myself in the shower after having been in one and gotten out of it in that strange dream state. But not for long. I’m pretty good at orienting myself.

His past is still flooding through me. The close calls, the support, the forcing himself to reach out for help even when he was disgusted with himself. His Jane was the one who took him to therapy, who saw what she called warning signs and did something about them. Weird.

There’s useful things too, he had a stretch that seems like it’ll make my back crack in a very satisfying way when I can get to a chair next. He was handy with his robotics, as most of us are. He was a strangely good dancer and I have no idea when that’ll come in handy, but it’s worth absorbing. 

I let the rest trickle through my mind, scanning it for what I want to keep, and then let it go. Another splinter gone. I don’t know how many there are out there, I don’t know if I can keep doing this forever, but it’s definitely necessary for now. 

It is. 

I get out of the shower and wrap a towel around myself, after making the barest effort towards dragging it over my hair so the dripping slows. I stare at my reflection, wondering why I even have mirrors. It’s not like anybody on this fucking ship cares what they look like. 

The lighting in here is strange. It makes my shadow look black and heavy on the wall behind me.

**Author's Note:**

> This one was very hard for me to write. The strategies that Dirk and Jake attempt against Meat Dirk are my own, and they work for me. It was pretty scary writing them being overwritten. With that in mind, please be compassionate in the comments.


End file.
